


A Day At The Races

by RogerTaylorCanRawMe



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Ben Hardy!Roger Taylor - Freeform, Bo Rhap, Car sex is the best, F/M, I'm in love with my car, I'm in love with my car is a good song, Oral Sex, Queen - Freeform, Roger Taylor - Freeform, Roger being a sore af loser, Sex in a Car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-20 08:11:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17018982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogerTaylorCanRawMe/pseuds/RogerTaylorCanRawMe
Summary: Struggling to fit your gear into your new car, you catch Roger’s eye. He can’t resist an opportunity to noise you up about it. And you can’t resist a challenge. The result? A day at the races with Roger Taylor.





	1. "I Bet I Could Beat You" "Could You Fuck"

**Author's Note:**

> Because Bo Rhap has ruined my life and I'm a hoe for cars.

Buying a 911 seemed like a great idea at the time. The looks from the boy racers in town were enough. But the feeling of pulling away from a set of traffic lights, leaving them in the dust. That was the icing on the cake.

But it didn’t feel like it after your first show as you tried to squeeze two guitars and an amp in beside you. Your leads and pedal board barely fit in the trunk. Beads of sweat dripped down your brow. Even with the seat all the way back, things were proving difficult. But you got there in the end. The door took some coaxing but you managed to close it, sighing in relief and ready for home.  
Hands on your hips, you took a moment.

The revellers from the student union hadn’t finished pouring out into the street. But their wall of chatter stood tall behind you. 

You looked up to the sky, trying to home in on a single conversation. And then you heard it.

“That can’t be your’s!”

Your eyes couldn’t have lolled further back in your skull as you turned around. Arms folded and brow low, you leaned back against your car. 

He was scrawny and drowsy looking, but the smirk on his face told you everything you needed to know. He wanted your attention. And he had it.

“Well it is,” you stated, sizing him up.

He edged closer, pointing to your car. “It’s not exactly a girl car, is it? You sure you can drive that?”

You weren’t in the mood to entertain this. You wandered around to the drivers side. “I’m willing to bet I can drive better than you.” You opened the door, shrugging, “could probably write better songs about it as well.”

“Oh so you know who I am?” he said, pointing to his chest and raising his eyebrows.

“You’re that obnoxious drummer from Queen,” you smiled.

“Obnoxious? And here I was about to congratulate you on a good show, but I think I’ll just leave it.”

“Good.”

“Your car’s not even that good anyway.”

“Why, what do you drive, drummer boy?”

He scanned the line of cars outside the student union. Then he pointed at a little Alfa Romeo Giulia. Sandwiched between a couple of beaten up Morris Minors. 

“That.”

Your competitive streak rushed to the surface. You couldn’t help it. You smacked the roof of your Porsche and grinned. “I reckon I could beat that.”

He looked bashful, shaking his head. It was as if he regretted approaching you. “No.”

“Right,” you began. Your hand plunged into your jacket pocket and pulled out a pencil and a crumpled piece of paper. “Here’s my phone number,” you muttered, smoothing out the paper and scrawling your details over it. “When you decide not to be such a wuss, why don’t you give me a bell and we’ll have a little race?” You underlined your name with a flourish, and beckoned him over to you, slapping the note in his hand. 

“Alright. Guess it’s a date.”

“Steady on,” you retorted, climbing into your car.

He closed the door behind you and leaned in the window. “Still going to beat you.”

“Are you fuck.”


	2. A Sore Loser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You meet up with Roger to see who really is the better driver.

Roger was already waiting for you in his poppy red sports car. He stared off into the distance, a cigarette dangling between his lips. He was off in his own little world. That was until your car slammed to a halt perpendicular to his. 

You rolled down your window, slipped off your sunglasses and gave him a smirk. You had his undivided attention. In fact, his jaw was practically in his lap. 

You expected Roger to play it cool. To leave it a few days. To be aloof. Not clingy in the slightest. But as soon as you got home from your gig the night before, your phone was bleating away on the hook. To your surprise, it was him. Keen and eager, and completely mirroring your own competitive streak. 

You spoke for an hour. He loved your show, talking about how much he wished he could go to more gigs in his free time. How, despite your awful taste in cars, your songs were pretty good. But the conversation took a nose dive there. Both of you resorted to trash talking each other. But in a sleepy haze, the pair of you agreed to meet on an industrial estate a few miles out of town. You could drive for miles straight, not encountering a single soul. Perfect for racing. Noon.

And so, you got out of your car and made your way to the window of Roger’s little red Alfa. Rose tinted aviators perched at the end of his nose. A hand nonchalantly draped over the tan leather steering wheel. He turned to you and nodded. "Alright?"

"It's a good day to kick some arse," you joked, taking a few steps away from his car.

He gave you an excessive eye roll and flicked his cigarette into the dirt at your feet. He tried his best not to flash you a broad smile. He couldn't resist. No one loved a challenge more than Roger. "You sound confident, good," he began, "where are we heading?"

Two warehouses stood the length of five football pitches away from where you had parked. You leaned in to Roger, pointing them out in the distance. "You see those?"

"Uh huh?"

“We’re going for them.”

"That's easy enough," he said, squinting off into the distance. 

You got back into your car and lined it up with Roger’s, peering out of the passenger’s side window.

He nodded.

You threw your hand up. Red leather driving gloves, holding up three fingers. Two. One.

And you were off. 

Great clouds of taupe coloured dust billowed up. It engulfed both of your cars as your wheels span into motion, propelling you along. Your cars travelled like a pair of bullets, side by side.

Every couple of metres, you would overtake Roger, or he would overtake you. Any lead was slight and short lived. Almost there. Nearing the end of the track, you made one final play to win. You dropped a gear. It worked. You overtook Roger.

And skid. Screech.

Three feet shy of a six foot barbed wire fence, you turned in time to see him finish behind you.

You won.

Cars nose to nose, you grinned like an idiot as Roger mouthed a sour, “what the fuck?”

You cocked your head to the side and went for another lap, without warning. Your car swayed out of his way and you passed him again. 

You saw him trying a u-turn in the rear view mirror. It turned out he was an awful driver, not quite managing to snag it in one attempt. 

There was no way he was catching you. No competition. You drove back to where you started your sprint and got out of the car, plonking yourself on the bonnet. You watched as he appoached in a plume. Your arms folded, your lower lip clamped between your teeth.

Roger tumbled out of his car and swaggered over to you. “That was a fluke.”

“Sore loser, Roger?” 

“It’s a fluke,” he said, his voice going up an octave. “Your car might be faster but I’m definitely the better driver.”

You stifled a laugh. “You’re a sore loser.”

“I’m not!”

“I tell you what,” you began, getting to your feet, “Let’s swap cars. And make it interesting.” You stood less than a foot away from Roger, your arms still folded, expecting him to get even more defensive. 

His eyes widened as he began to realise what you were getting at. “Oh.”

His keys dangled between his fingers. Without missing a beat, you swiped them, and pressed your own to his chest. Back to where you had started. Side by side. This time in each others’ cars. 

“To be clear,” Roger said, peering your out the passenger window of your Porsche and into his Alfa. “If I win…” He never finished that sentence. Instead, he nodded, flashing you a knowing smile. 

“I hope you like being on your knees, Rog,” you spluttered, slipping his car into gear. You tried to train your eyes forward.

He revved your car twice. "I meant lunch!"

You blasted his horn.

And once again, you both shot off towards the warehouses, fuelled by the determination to win. 

You already knew that his car wasn’t a patch on your own. 

But you let him believe that he was winning. Cruising. Hanging back. Letting him get complacent. 

Then you tried that same trick again. The revs shot up. The engine roared, sending vibrations through the car. Like a dart, you beat him again. Only by a whisker this time.

The turn you took was so harsh that you thought you were going to burst through the fence. But you made it. You got on your way again. 

Roger thought he had won. It took him a few moments for it to register that you had passed him again. You were halfway back before he turned around in the same clumsy way as before. 

Standing square in his line of travel, you watched as your car hurtled towards you. It stopped a foot away. Keeping the engine running, Roger got out of your car, sauntering over to you. His head was down, a mischievous look on his face, looking at you through his lashes.

You shook your head. "How about that?"

“Perhaps we can come to some kind of arrangement, darling?” he said, finally reaching you. He looked you right in the eye as his hands found their way to your hips.

You bit your lip. Thinking for a moment. “From what I’ve heard about you, Roger, you don’t usually seem to have this kind of problem.” You walked him backwards, pressing him against the bonnet of your clean white Porsche. He put up very little resistance, grinning like an idiot as you took control of the situation. Your fingertips trailed down his chest. “Your car or mine?” you asked in a low voice.

He leaned into you. His lips brushed against your’s for a split second as he caressed your jaw. The heady scent of smoke on his breath and cologne on his clothes was intoxicating. He answered your question with what felt like another question. He was so quiet when he spoke, you couldn't help but lean into him. “Your’s?” He asked, piercing you with those baby blues, waiting for your lead. 

You took his hand and led him around to the passenger side of your car, sitting down, legs dangling out. Roger took his place between them and traced his fingers up your thighs, hiking up your skirt. Not once did he take his eyes off of you.


	3. Roger Loves To Tease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Besting Roger at a car race, you gladly claim your prize.

Roger pressed a trail of soft, gentle kisses to your neck, your jaw, your lips. He leaned over you, his hands dragging the hem of your skirt all the way up to your waist.

The anticipation was unbearable. You expected - and wanted - him to cut to the chase, but he took his time. Even when you clawed at handfuls of his hair. Pulling him closer to kiss him. He’d pull away, giving you a quiet giggle, then getting back to teasing you. He was making painstaking work of you.

He gingerly undid the top few buttons of your blouse with shaking hands. Those feather light kisses of his inched lower still. You writhed and twitched underneath him.

You could feel the heat building between your legs. Your blouse was now draped around your shoulders as the cold air lapped at your skin. Roger's lips neared the waistband of your skirt. That didn't help matters at all.

The truth was, Roger loved teasing you. Making you wait. Hearing you beg.

Especially so when you grasped at his hair and pleaded with him. You could see his eyes narrow as he smiled against your skin. 

His devilish onslaught ceased for a moment. 

Your chest heaved, anticipating what was to come.

Roger moved back to get a better look at you. With great care, he looped his fingers underneath the waistband of your underwear. Pulling them down around your ankles. Leaving them in a saturated heap on the ground beside him. His eyes roamed from your face, flushed and flustered, all the way down your body. He bit his lip as he saw how aroused you had become. One last look and he leaned back into you. He lapped away at the soft skin of your thighs. And then, a brush of his fingertips against your slit.

It sent quiet curses from your lips. But you needed more.

He dragged his tongue over your lips, parting them ever so gently. His eyes fluttering closed as he enjoyed you.

You couldn’t help but squirm as he contentedly licked and sucked your pink sensitive folds. 

His fingers pressed into your hips, holding you firmly in place. His tongue edged towards your clit, drawing slow circles around it, not once touching it. He was back to teasing you. He loved watching your hips grind against his mouth, angling for more. 

Panting and moaning, the sheer need for release was becoming too much for you to bear. Trying to muffle your moans, you placed your arm over your mouth. That didn't work. Your teeth threatened to pierce your skin as sheer desperation took hold of you.

And when you were on the brink of coming, Roger pulled away.

Disappointed at the break in contact, you whimpered.

He replaced his mouth with his fingertips. “You’re so pretty,” Roger whispered, his chin glistening with your juices. He slipped a finger, then two, inside you. Slow, steady strokes, brushing exactly the right spot, had you worked up again in seconds. But it wasn’t enough to tip you over the edge. He knew that. “I’m just wondering, darling, if I should allow you to come just yet.”

“Please, Rog,” you panted, your hips meeting the motion of his fingers. 

He admired you for a moment. It seemed like you were growing needier by the second. “You were so smug about getting one up on me…”

“Fuck, I’ll do anything.”

Roger smirked and leaned back into you. “I’ll hold you to that,” he mumbled, his breath hot against your skin. He wasted no time in quickening his pace.

Your cunt quivered as his fingers pumped away inside you. His tongue focused on your clit with small, direct strokes. 

Your breath began to hitch in your chest. Your legs quivered, keeping Roger right where you needed him. Back arched. Eyes clamped shut. One hand in his hair, the other grasping at anything you could to keep you from collapsing to the floor. It was absolute bliss.

Out of your haze, you hauled yourself upright in front of Roger. He was still on his haunches, looking up at you, facing a big, goofy grin.

And then it happened. The sound of a horn thundered through the strip of land, ricocheting off of every surface. You turned around, Roger stood up. A hefty, bearded man hanging out of a bin lorry leered at the pair of you. “Oi, this is private property, not a knocking shop! Clear off! Fucking kids these days!” The lorry sped off, shrouding you both in dust clouds.

You stood up and adjusted your skirt, mortified. “Well, we should get going,” you said, not able to look at Roger. 

Roger came closer again, redoing the buttons on your blouse for you. “You know how you said you’d do anything?” he said with a small smile.

“Yeah?” you asked, placing your hands on your hips.

He finished fastening the top button of your shirt. Right up to your neck. “Fancy getting lunch? I’ve got a couple more days before I-”

“Just lunch?”

Roger screwed up his lips and undid the top two buttons on your blouse again. “Well…”


End file.
